


The Florida Tapes

by arachnistar



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, florida fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-03 23:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10261706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arachnistar/pseuds/arachnistar
Summary: It isn’t home without you.A triptych of when Amy was in New York and Jake was in Florida and nothing was okay.





	1. side a: the fight for you is all i’ve ever known

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from my longer fics because writing stories with lots of plot is hard and my brain keeps shutting down but I still wanted to write something, to stretch myself and keep up on writing daily. I got a lot of angst for my troubles. The next two chapters will hopefully be up within the next week, week and a half if I run into any bumps. Chapter title is from Come Home by One Republic. 
> 
> **Warning** for anxiety attack in this chapter.

It’s been three hours since Amy asked Jake to move in together and joy lifted her up into the stratosphere at his response, and two hours and fifty-eight minutes since he got a phone call from Figgis that shot their happiness in the foot multiple times.

The entire squad is gathered around a table where U.S. Marshal Karen Haas has just finished briefing them on the situation. Jake and Captain Holt will be moved to a secure, undisclosed location where they will be protected until Figgis’ capture. The rest of them won’t know where they’ll go or what their new identities will be. There will be no contact whatsoever, lest it compromise their location.

Amy keeps her head clear while the Marshal speaks, focused in the same way she used to focus on history lessons and the proper way to put someone in a headlock, but now a buzzing sense of panic has crept in, threatening to drown out everything, the marshal’s words already losing some of their crisp clarity.

Her empty hand, the one that Jake hasn’t been gripping tightly the entire time, the one that isn’t gripping Jake’s hand back just as tightly, both holding on to a life preserver in the middle of a chaotic sea, curls into a fist. Her nails dig into the meat of her hand and the mild pain is enough to sharpen her focus again. At least enough to hear the Marshal tell them to say their good-byes. 

She leaves the room and then it’s just the squad. It doesn’t seem fair that they’re finally all together, having already celebrated their assumed victory, only to be torn apart once more. For a moment, no one says a word. And then:

“We’re going to find Figgis and we’re going to destroy him.” Rosa growls, her voice as much a promise as her tight fists.

Terry smiles though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll be home in no time.”

 “Thank you, Sergeant.” Holt spent the entire meeting back ramrod straight and eyes glazed. Now though he nods at Terry. “Until then, or until the point at which they select a new captain, I’d like you to be the acting captain. I know you’ll do me proud.”

Amy hears the crack at the end of Captain Holt’s sentence, his voice on the edge of breaking, and even though she’s lost in her own disaster movie, her heart aches for him. To lose the precinct he fought so hard for again, to lose his friends and his husband for some undefined period of time, it isn’t fair. Kevin isn’t even here to say good-bye; he’s still in France with an entire ocean between them. She hopes he’ll have enough time to fly out before they leave but isn’t sure. Marshal Haas had said they needed to leave immediately but surely she would allow two husbands a farewell in person. 

Terry’s eyes gleam. “I won’t let you down, sir.”  

Jake tugs Amy out of her seat and leads them out of the briefing room. They walk down the hall where there’s a little more privacy. He turns to her and his eyes are red, tears already dripping down his face, breaths heaving, and Amy hates that this is happening to him, that she can’t find Figgis right now and make sure he can never touch the people she loves. She reaches out and takes Jake’s other hand.  

Amy Santiago, when she isn’t panicked, has always been good with words, has always managed to craft her sentences into precise tools to get her point across. It came from taking debate in high school and college, and from a score of other activities that required her to speak. But now every word seems inadequate, too small to possibly contain everything she feels and everything she wants Jake to remember and know before he leaves. The dictionary wouldn’t help her now, its pages upon pages of words nothing to the feelings in her heart.

It doesn’t help that a lump has taken up residence in her throat, so when she opens her mouth the first time, everything gets caught inside and nothing comes out. She swallows and tries again, voice raspy with the effort. “Jake?”

Her voice seems to trigger something inside of him because he jerks and starts talking, words piling out of his mouth like passengers on a packed rush hour train desperate to get out of the sweat and heat to their homes.

“I don’t know how long this is going to take. For them to find Figgis. Maybe they’ll get him yesterday or maybe – they’ve been chasing him for years and – “ He pauses, clears his throat. Amy so much wants him to stop talking like this, as if they won’t be seeing each other soon, but the lump in her throat refuses to budge. “I-if you want to, if it takes that long, you can find someone else. That’ll be okay. I want you to be happy.”

“No!” He jumps at the sudden sharpness in her voice. She sighs, squeezes his hands once in apology for startling him, thumb rubbing soothing circles into his skin. He squeezes back. “You don’t want that.”

“No.” Jake admits, eyes flashing away from her to a point past her shoulder. “No matter how long this takes, I’m not going to find anyone else. You’re – you’re it for me. But I want you to be happy. And if that means with someone else…”

Amy shakes her head, her heart both soaring and crashing in her chest. How does that work? How can she feel like she’s flying when her world is coming down around her? But she has to remember. This isn’t permanent. Figgis will be caught and Jake will return. This isn’t forever. She will fight tooth and nail to make sure of it and he needs to know that.  

“I’ll wait for you.” His eyes shoot back to hers. When she speaks, her voice is full of a steely determination, born of a lifetime of competing for respect and years of working hard cases and weeks of living in a Texan prison full of murderers. “You’re it for me too, Jake, and I will _always_ wait for you. I’ll find Figgis, _end_ him, and bring you home. I promise.”

He watches her with the same look of awe he always does, but magnified a thousand times, mouth slightly open and eyes blown wide. She is his and he is hers and nobody will ever take that away from them.

“I love you so much.”

His eyes crinkle in delight, as if this is all he ever needs to hear in his life, and she smiles back, a broken and watery version of her usual smile but still a smile. “I love you so much too.”

She steps closer, dropping his hands so hers can cradle his face. Her lips press against his, warm, tasting of Jake and salt from his tears. His hands drop to her hips, clutching at her. She wants to press this moment into her mind, preserve it in amber and eternity, in case this is the last time. The last time – for a while – not forever, she reminds herself because she can’t afford to think otherwise.     

He pushes her against the wall and she pushes herself closer to his body, tangling fingers in hair, digging into skin, as if they could meld together and eliminate all the empty spaces between them so they would never be separated, as if all that distance won’t matter if only they get close enough now, as if they could weather the fiercest hurricane as long as they hold on and never let go.

It’s a cruel fact then, that they’re forced to let go, that Amy has to stand and watch Jake get into a car with Marshall Haas and Captain Holt, that the car pulls away from the curb and takes her heart with them.

\--

After the meeting and her final look at Jake, for what will be weeks or months or some longer stretch of time she can’t let herself think of, Amy goes home. She putters around on autopilot: hanging up her coat on its proper hook, setting her purse down, heating up some leftovers. They taste like nothing in her mouth and her stomach churns whenever she swallows so she ends up throwing out the rest without the usual wince for wasted food.

She makes it through the rest of the evening without breaking down once by washing every dish, then the counter, then every other surface in her apartment. When she runs out of surfaces, she drops down on the couch and stares at the television. Jeopardy is on and normally she would be all over that, sniping at the contestants and crowing when she’s correct, but her mind is still a fuzzy blank and she can’t hear anything.   

Once the show is over, she enters her bathroom to brush her teeth for the night and she spots Jake’s electric blue toothbrush in the toothbrush holder. Her throat clenches shut and her whole body starts to shake, so hard that she can’t stand anymore, has to sink down to the bathroom floor instead.

Sobs wrack her body, big heaving sobs that threaten to crack her open and let her insides dribble out on the tiled floor. She buries her head against her knees and cries.

It’s stupid, it’s a fucking _toothbrush_ , it doesn’t matter –

It’s Jake. It’s Jake in her apartment and in her life. It’s their relationship and a reminder of their discussion earlier that day, before it all turned to shit. 

They were supposed to move in together.

And now Amy doesn’t know where he went, just that it was far away where Figgis couldn’t touch him. And she doesn’t know when he’ll be back. If he’ll be back. Oh God, he might never return. She inhales sharply, in out, in out, too fast, heart fluttering in her chest like a manic hummingbird, and she’s vaguely aware that she needs to slow down, needs to start counting and centering her thoughts, but –

Figgis has evaded capture for this long. He could easily keep doing it, fade away into the shadows like some specter, and then Jake will be gone forever, living a new life with a new name in a new city – and Amy will never see him again. Or maybe Figgis will find Jake and kill him and the next time Amy sees Jake it’ll be in a coffin, his skin too pale, his body too still –

 _Stop_.

She pinches herself, focuses on the sharp bite of pain through the warzone that her mind has become. It’s enough to briefly interrupt the torrent of thoughts, enough for her to remind herself what to do.

First, inhale. She breathes in, filling her lungs to capacity, holds it for five seconds, and then exhales slowly. She repeats the process several times, staring at a point on her bathroom wall. The thoughts are still running rampant in her head, Jake and Figgis and death and forever, but she focuses on breathing in and out, counting out the beats. Gradually her heartbeat slows and a sort of calm settles on her shoulders, the mantle of a warrior ready to charge into battle.

She needs to stay strong. She needs to keep working cases. She needs to keep an eye and ear out for news on Figgis or anyone involved with him. She needs to brush her teeth right now and get some rest so she can go to work and do all these things with a clear head.  

(This won’t be the first time she breaks down as the months pass with no word of Figgis and no end in sight. Sometimes she’ll be with others, Charles holding her hand, Rosa’s voice solid in her ears, and sometimes she’ll be alone in an empty apartment. She’ll forget her resolutions and she’ll forget to eat or sleep or take time off for herself – but she’ll always find a way back to this warrior determination.)

Amy stands, shaky and coltish, and manages to finish brushing her teeth. Her eyes stay on her reflection, on her red eyes and smeared make-up, and away from Jake’s toothbrush. She washes up and returns to her bedroom. Her heart jumps in her chest at the sight of her bed, where Jake has been so many times, the memories bubbling up inside her, and she almost breaks down again. 

She reminds herself that she will find Figgis. She will. 

She pulls on one of Jake’s hoodies and sweatpants, left behind in his drawer. The hoodie still smells like him and she burrows her nose into the fabric, inhaling the scent greedily. It makes fresh tears well up in Amy’s eyes but it also makes her feel less alone. He’s not here, but he’s not gone forever. It’s a mantra she’ll repeat many times over the next six months.

“He’ll come home again.” She tells the quiet room, a command to the universe and a promise that she will not rest until she brings him back.


	2. side b: it’s not just where you lay your head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst ahead, this time from Jake's perspective! The chapter title is from _Home_ by Gabrielle Aplin, a song that never fails to make me emotional.

Jake spends his entire first week in Coral Palms in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom and slap together a quick meal. Bowls of cereal, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, instant ramen, the exact food doesn’t matter because it all tastes like ashes in Jake’s mouth anyway. He’s vaguely aware that Amy would criticize his choices and remind him that he needs three square meals a day and a balanced diet of vegetables, fruits, and proteins to live a healthy life. He would like her to know that it’s lucky he’s eating anything, so there, it’s a victory, take that.

Except that only gets him wondering whether _Amy_ is eating enough or if she’s forgetting about meals like she tends to do when anxious.   

It’s that thought and the sobering realization that his cabinets and refrigerator are depressingly empty that gets him to pull on new clothes – the first time he’s changed this entire week and he still almost walks out in his grungy shirt before he remembers to pull something else on – and stumble outside. The Florida sun immediately tries to cook him alive and in the short walk to the supermarket, his clothes have stuck to his skin and his hair is flat against his head.

 _Screw Florida_ , he decides, _why would_ anyone _choose to live here?_

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe everyone in Coral Palms is hiding from mafia bosses and murderers, the entire town a convenient place for WITSEC to dump its people.

He eyes the gaggle of teenagers hanging out by the shopping carts. They’re drinking slushies from the 7-11 down the road, laughing over something one of them said, the sound too grating against Jake’s ears after too many days alone inside. He decides that nope, other people seem happy here. Or else, they’re all just hiding it extremely well.    

Jake step around the teenagers, grabs a cart, and wheels it aimlessly through the aisles, dropping food in without much consideration for taste or nutritional value. It’s how he ends up with five bags of different chip brands, fish sticks, the biggest box of microwaveable burritos that ever existed, and a jar of pickles. He doesn’t even _like_ pickles but somehow it appears in his cart and he doesn’t have the energy to remove it.  

As he turns to the front to pay for his groceries, he spots bottles of Orangina sitting on the shelf. The ground drops out from below him and his heart soars up into his throat where it lodges itself quite firmly. His breath whistles in and out, body trembling, and he is going to start crying in the middle of a supermarket on a Friday afternoon.

Or Wednesday, maybe it’s actually the middle of the week, he’s lost track of the calendar days, only knows that it’s been a week since he last saw Amy and that it’s a week too long without her smile or skin or voice in his life.

Fuck, it’s only been a _week_.

How is he going to survive any longer? What if the search for Figgis extends into months? Years? What if Figgis slips away again and they _never_ find him? And Jake has to live in Florida for the rest of his life where he’s just a guy named Larry who doesn’t have a job or an Amy or _anything_.

Except for memories and those will fade eventually until there’s nothing left, just an empty shell of a person who’s paralyzed by not-soda in supermarkets. What if forgets her favorite takeout order? What if he forgets the sound of her laugh? What if he forgets the significance of _Orangina_?    

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Jake jumps at the unfamiliar voice. He glances around and finds the voice’s owner, an old woman who comes to about his elbow’s height.

“Y-yeah.” He swallows. It’s not a very convincing picture, his voice heavy and his eyes leaking tears like traitors.

She eyes him. “You don’t look okay. Would you like –”

Jake never finds out what she’s going to offer because suddenly he can’t do this anymore. He left the house and he walked to the supermarket and he even assembled a cart of groceries, but the Orangina and the old woman’s concern are the last straw. He can’t do this anymore, not right now.   

“No, I’m good. Awesome. I – my house is burning down – I need to go.” He stammers out and then runs. He doesn’t think about anything, just that he needs to get away.

By the time he reaches the house, Larry’s house, not Jake’s, and not home by any stretch of the word, he’s soaked and panting. He remembers the groceries when he goes inside and sees his barren kitchen. He forgot the fucking groceries. He hangs his head and thinks about how he failed the single thing he was going to accomplish today.

Fine, he’ll just order pizza. Pizza has always been his comfort food and he can sure use some of that right now.

(It’s a mistake. Somehow Florida messes up even the world’s most amazing food.)    

\--

Jake returns the next day, slinking into the supermarket thirty minutes before closing like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime. Not that he stole anything but he did leave an entire cart of groceries behind in his haste to not break down in front of an old woman and he figures that’s the sort of thing supermarket employees get upset about.

He grabs burritos and chips and fish sticks like last time. No pickles though, he has enough sense of mind to avoid them this time. It’s actually going pretty well, all things considered.  

Then he’s back in the aisle with Orangina bottles, chest tight with pressure. Each step feels ominous, another step closer to Mordor, until he’s there in front of the bottles. His fingers tap against the cart handle, an off-rhythm beat, and he stares at them.

He doesn’t like Orangina, doesn’t like that it’s basically a more acidic, less sweet version of orange soda, but then he almost bought pickles yesterday so clearly he isn’t making good choices anymore.

But – the thing is – well – _Amy_ likes it.

He grabs a bottle and sets it in his cart before he can change his mind or burst into tears again.

Back home, he opens the bottle and drinks from it directly, holding the neck in one hand and cradling the bottle in the other. The liquid stings and yeah, he still prefers orange soda, but he thinks of Amy, warm and kind and brilliant Amy, and his heart grows warm.

For all that he didn’t like it back in New York, Orangina is the closest he’s felt to home since leaving.

\--

There’s a knock at the door, a solid thump of a knock.

Jake stares from his place on the couch. No one ever comes to visit him. No one in the neighborhood knows him, except for Margaret who brought over a casserole when he first moved in, only to be greeted by his zombie stare, and Holt who hasn’t spoken to him once except to say good day neighbor when they pass each other.

The knock comes again and Jake stumbles over to open the door, squinting at the bright Florida sunlight outside.

“H– Greg?” He frowns, catching himself before he can use the man’s real name. “What are you doing here?”

There’s a starburst of hope and life in Jake’s chest, the first he’s had since he moved to Florida, when he thinks Holt is here to tell him that they can go home, that Figgis has been caught and they never have to live in Florida again, that he can finally see Amy.

“Hello Larry.” It takes everything in Jake to not recoil from the name, it’ll sound like something toxic for the rest of his life, but he manages to bite his tongue. “Your grass is dying.”

Jake’s brow furrows. Of all the things Holt could have said to him, this is probably the one Jake expected to hear least. He squints at Holt. Was he speaking in code? Was this covered in the briefing – maybe while Jake was failing to pay attention because he couldn’t stop thinking about everything he was leaving behind?

“What?”

“Your grass.” Holt gestures. Jake follows his finger outside. He blinks a few times, expecting the scene to change to contain Marshal Haas or even one of Figgis’ men (as if Holt would still be standing there if that were the case), but the only thing out there is the browning grass in front of his house. The contrast between his lawn and Holt’s – which is bright green and neatly trimmed to some lawn regulation golden standard– is jarring, as stark a difference as the rest of their lives in Florida. “You haven’t been watering it and it’s drying up.”

“Oh.” Jake’s shoulders sag, the heavy boulder settling back on him. “It’s fine. They never should have planted grass here anyway. I’m doing the water department a service.” 

“You should…” Holt pauses and looks pointedly at Jake, “take care of it.”

Jake knows he’s not just talking about the grass. Thing is, he can’t find it in himself to care.

Still, Holt is watching him with patient eyes. Sad eyes. Jake suddenly has the fear that Holt saw him in the hot tub the other day, eating the burrito, and now pities him. He isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

“Sure. Thanks.” He tries to smile, ends up forcing a rictus of a grin, stretched and thin across his face. He starts to close the door. Holt wedges his foot in it because apparently he’s not done.

“You should go out and make some friends. Get a job. We may be here a while.”

Jake nods. He’s dimly aware of the fact that Holt has, somehow, carved a life for himself here. He has a job and the other morning Jake saw him go past with a circle of power-walking women in tracksuits. It’s a little horrifying how seamlessly Holt seems to have slid into suburban backwater Florida. Greg has become a person in his own right whereas Larry remains a facsimile: a name, a head of frosted tips, and a set of facts on a WITSEC document.

He doesn’t know how Holt stands it, being away from his dream job, his friends, and his husband. Does Holt cry himself to sleep at night, like Jake has every night since coming to Florida? He stares into Holt’s eyes, as if he can divine the truth behind Greg there, but it’s as hard to read Greg as it had been with Captain Holt. The only sign that anything is off are the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

Holt clears his throat. Jake jumps and shakes his head. “Yep. Sounds great. I’ll see you around, Greg.”

Holt gives him a long stare. Jake bounces on the balls of his feet and wills him to go away. This is too much and he’s going to start crying again if Holt tries to talk to him, _really_ talk to him about emotions and not just grass, and that won’t help anyone.  

“Good-bye Larry.” Holt steps back. He turns once he’s walked a few steps to point at Jake and then his dying lawn. “Water your grass.”

Jake almost salutes him, his arm raises halfway, and then he remembers. This isn’t New York and Holt isn’t his Captain anymore. His arm drops and his knees give out beneath him.

He doesn’t hit the ground, Holt already there to catch him and drag him back into the house, door shutting behind them. Holt settles them down on the floor right there as Jake starts to sob. Jake ends up with his arms halfway around Holt, face buried into his chest, legs crumbled beneath him, while Holt’s arms settle around his back. Holt’s motions are hesitant and gentle, as if he isn’t used to this, but he remains steady even as Jake’s sobs shake his body and everything feels like it’s coming undone.

“I miss New York. I miss the precinct. I miss her. I miss her so much.” Jake weeps into Holt’s shoulder, his words muffled.

“I know.” Holt doesn’t say anything else for a while , just rubs Jake’s back while he sobs, and then, in a quieter voice, “I miss him too.”

And Jake remembers Kevin and how this must be just as hard, even harder, for Captain Holt to bear with months of separation already between them. His arms wrap tighter around Holt. Holt isn’t crying but Jake can feel his body trembling with restraint and they clutch each other like lifelines.

They hold each other for a long time, unaware of the passing time, until Jake’s sobs gentle out and his body stops shaking quite so much. Somewhere they have homes, somewhere they have a family, somewhere they have hearts, somewhere he would feel embarrassed about this (and he will later), but that somewhere is not here. Here, they have only each other and all the comfort that two grieving souls can offer.

Now that he’s stopped sobbing, Jake lets himself just breathe. A steady in-and-out, counting out the seconds, just like Amy’s breathing exercises. They sit in silence for a moment, neither moving away just yet though Holt’s movements have stopped. He's thinking, maybe, or deciding the best way to extricate himself from this situation, Jake isn't sure which. Jake could possibly figure it out if he looks up at Holt's face, but he can't do it. 

“Peralta. They are the sharpest detectives in the world. They will find Figgis and we will go home.”

And here, cloistered from the sweltering Florida heat within the darkness of Larry’s house, tears not yet dry, Holt’s words resonate like a commandment, something sacred and unbreakable. Like truth.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://proofthatihaveaheart.tumblr.com/).


	3. bonus track: in my mind i call you home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The much fluffier final chapter to the fic! Chapter title is from _Call You Home_ by Kelvin Jones.

Amy spends the drive back up to New York City nestled against Jake’s side, holding his hand like a tether, as if she’ll simply float away into the void if she doesn’t hold on to him. Or he will, and then he’ll be lost to her forever.  

She never wants him to leave again.

At the beginning of the trip, Charles pulls out his scrapbook, which he snuck into his bag even though they were _only_ bringing the essentials and no, scrapbooks of Nikolaj did not count. No one complains now though, everyone too ecstatic to have Captain Holt and Jake back to mind that Charles is going to run through a detailed account of his life with Nikolaj starting with his trip to Latvia with Genevieve.

(Later Gina will cut the account short, about 500 photos in, to talk about the real star here, Gina Linetti who singlehandedly held the precinct together in their absence. But that’s later, after they’ve passed through South Carolina and loaded up on snacks from a gas station at the state border.)

Amy is content to lean her head against Jake’s shoulder and listen to his comments and feel the vibrations of his laughter travel through him whenever Charles says something amusing. She has so much she wants to say to Jake, to talk to him about, but right now, it’s more than enough to have him close.

She’s tired too, the adrenaline and stress of the past six months finally melting away into a glorious satisfaction. Jake is back and she doesn’t have to worry about Figgis any longer. She can finally rest. Around fifty photos in, she’s on the verge of falling asleep though the conversation between Charles and Jake keeps pulling her back from the edge. It’s been too long since she listened to Jake talk.  

“And this is Nikolaj at my favorite Icelandic restaurant for the first time.”

“What’s he eating?” Jake leans closer to the photograph.

“Kæstur hákarl.”

“In English?”

“Fermented shark.”

“Eww, Charles!” Jake’s voice pitches higher and Amy has to bite down a delighted laugh. She’s already heard this story from Charles, even been offered a taste of his own attempts at preparing the delicacy. As such, her disgust has run its course. “Why would you ever feed a kid that? They’re supposed to be eating chicken nuggets and pizza rolls!”

“Jake!” Charles sounds mildly horrified at the mere concept that he feed his son _chicken nuggets_. “I would never! Anyway, shows what you know, because Nikolaj loved it.”

Jake’s entire face scrunches up. “ _How?_ ”

Warmth rushes through Amy at the expression on his face and the entire situation. She missed Jake, not just as her boyfriend and best friend, but in hearing him talk to their other friends, in having his voice fill the precinct, in every aspect of life itself. She presses a sleepy, affectionate kiss to Jake’s jaw.

He glances away from Charles to smile down at her and then his face resumes its pained expression. “He’s feeding his son _rotten_ shark, Amy.”  

“I know.” She whispers back, patting his hand with her free one.

“Actually, that’s a common misconception. It’s not rotten, it’s _fermented_. The way they do it is – “

“No, no, no, no, I do not need to know this.” Jake says loudly as Charles continues to explain the process.

“ _No one_ needs to hear about your gross food, Charles!” Rosa snaps from the back.

“Fine, but you’re all missing out on an exquisite traditional Icelandic dish.” And then he starts on the next photo, of Nikolaj standing in Central Park with Genevieve.

Several stops at diners and gas stations later, they arrive in New York City. Without any prior discussion, Jake walks with Amy to her apartment. Once inside, he stares around the living room, absorbing every little detail, while she sets her purse down and checks her refrigerator for leftovers.

“I don’t remember this.” Amy looks over to see Jake fingering a floral patterned quilt spread across the back of her couch. The shape itself is a little irregular, not quite rectangular, and some of the patches are larger than others, but it’s warm and bright.

“It’s new.”

“Oh.”

He drops down on the couch. After deciding dinner can wait, Amy walks over and settles down next to him. Immediately his arms wrap around her. She tugs the blanket over them and curls closer, burying her nose against his neck to breathe him in. He smells like sweat and the cologne she saw him try to discreetly buy in a gas station earlier, they haven’t had a chance to shower and it shows, but underneath that, there’s the scent she remembers, the one that makes her think _home_.  

“My mom gave it to me when she visited a few months ago. She’s been learning how to quilt with some friends. This was her third attempt. I’m pretty sure by the end of it, every single Santiago will own a Pilar original.”

He laughs, the sound music to her ears. “When do I get to meet her?”

“She doesn’t come to the city often, but next time she’s here, I promise.”

Jake is quiet for a moment. She knows he’s regretting not being there to meet her mother and once again, she wonders what he was doing in Florida at the time. He’d spoken very little about his time there on the drive back up, deflecting all questions from the squad with quick jokes about Florida’s heat or its severe snake problem and then asking his own questions. She presses her lips against his neck and he smiles down at her, hand moving to stroke her back.

“What else did I miss?”

“Not much.” Amy shrugs. She doesn’t like thinking about the months away from him, can only imagine that it was worse for Jake away from his friends and his job. “We spent a lot of time trying to find Figgis while working our usual cases. What about you? What did you do in Florida?”

Jake doesn’t answer immediately. One of his hands continues to stroke her back while the other rests on her waist.

“Not a lot. I didn’t go out much.” He pauses. Amy waits a moment and then taps at his shoulder before he can get lost in thought. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

Jake’s hand drifts up to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and she meets his eyes, dilated with desire, before she meets his lips. She missed this, the taste of him against her tongue, the heat of his mouth, just as she missed everything else about him.

His other hand travels across her body, sending shivers running up and down her spine. Amy’s blood buzzes with heat and love and a deep-rooted need to get closer to him. She shifts herself, sliding on top of him. Her fingertips brush against the exposed skin at his waist, eliciting a gasp. She laughs in delight and pulls back enough to take him in. Her heart feels so full, like it may just burst from how much she loves him.

“We should move to the bedroom.”

Jake blinks up at her, a slow grin stretching across his face. “Yep, good idea, great, let’s go.”

She gives him one more kiss for good measure before pulling him up.

\--

At first, Amy doesn’t bring up their decision from six months ago. Jake needs time to adjust to being back. He doesn’t need another upheaval right now, something new to explore and figure out even if it is something definitively good. Despite her decision to not talk about moving in until he’s settled, he spends his first week back at her apartment and the next, she spends at his. Amy doesn’t complain.

Several months later, they’re lying in his bed, her arm flung around his middle, thighs pressed tight to his so there’s as little space as possible between them. Her nose is buried against the back of his neck. She’s just starting to drift off when he speaks.  

“Amy?” Jake asks. “Are you still awake?”

“Hmm, yeah.” 

“Do you remember what we decided before I had to leave?”

Amy doesn’t answer immediately though her heart jumps in her chest and suddenly she’s very much awake. She remembers every single moment of that night. Of how her heart had sprouted wings at the sight of him alive and well, of how she’d realized that she didn’t want to spend a single day without him ever again, that she wanted to live together and call the same place home. She wanted him for the rest of her life – and he had returned the sentiment, his eyes warm and lit with joy, until the phone call from Figgis had stolen six months away from them.

“Ames?”

Amy presses a kiss to his neck, soft, apologetic for going so long without saying anything. “Yes, I remember.”

He twists around in her arms until they’re face-to-face. Although the room is dark, she can make out the lines of his face this close. He stares into her eyes, deep and dark, and her heart thumps against the walls of her chest. “Do you still want to move in together?”

She smiles and he returns the smile. “Of course I do. I was giving you time to adjust, but yes, definitely. Let’s do it.”

“Great. I want to move in too.”

She leans in to kiss him, because she can’t not, in this moment with their future spread bright before them, and he kisses her back with a similar enthusiasm. Their foreheads remain pressed together after they separate, her whole world a beaming Jake Peralta. She’s going to see him every morning when she wakes up and that thought alone is enough to send a spiral of warm bubbles through her body.   

“When do you want to move your stuff?”

Amy’s brow furrows and she frowns at him. “Wait a minute, who says we’re moving into your place?”

“I do?” Her scowl deepens. “Come on, Ames, you _know_ my place is in a cooler neighborhood.”

“It’s the size of a shoebox – “

“The world’s most awesome shoebox! Like a shoebox for Air Jordans.”

“- and it’s _crawling_ with filth.”

“Harsh.” He sighs. “So what? You want me to move into your place?”

“Yes.” He snorts. Her eyes narrow. “What’s so bad about my place?”

“Nothing. It’s just not as good as mine.”

“Well I’m not moving into your shoebox apartment.”

“And I’m not moving into your grandma apartment!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Amy rolls away from him, breaking free from his arms to turn her back. The room falls quiet, the kind of suffocating silence that claws its way into your throat and soul until you want to cry because of it. Amy shuts her eyes tight to keep the tears at bay. She is not going to cry right now, with Jake so close and their words still ringing in her ears.

She hears Jake shift, thinks that maybe he’s reaching out for her, but his touch never comes. She imagines his hand hovering in the space between them, uncertain, and her heart clenches. She’s so tired of spaces between them. She takes a few moments to breathe, to release all the frustration, and then –

“Jake?”

“Amy?”

They speak at the same time and then both fall silent for a beat. The next time, Amy is the sole one to break the quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Does this mean you don’t want to move in anymore?” His voice is so small that she instantly feels a guilty pang in her chest for moving away and ending the argument that way. She rolls back over to face him and reaches out to touch his face. He leans into her hand. Her fingertips curl into the edge of his hair, as if she can press everything she feels into that one touch.

“No, of course not.” He smiles. “I still want to move in with you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“We’ll figure this out.” He nods back at her. “There’s no rush to decide. We can list out all the pros and cons of both our places and then decide this objectively.”

“Or we can just fight our case until one of us surrenders and accepts that one place is clearly the superior one?”

She laughs and nods. “Or that. Of course I’ll win.”

“No, you won’t.” He sticks out his tongue and it’s so ridiculous and childish and _Jake_ that Amy’s chest constricts with how much she loves him.

She taps her finger gently on his temple. “But we will move in together.”  

His hand travels up and slides over hers, his eyes never leaving hers. They’re full of promise and love and a steely determination, like moving in with her is the hill he’s chosen to make his final stand on and he’ll be damned if anyone tries to interfere with that ever again.

“We will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they make the bet and Jake surrenders for Amy’s happiness and they move in together and MY HEART IS NEVER THE SAME AGAIN.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://proofthatihaveaheart.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://proofthatihaveaheart.tumblr.com/).


End file.
